A Circular Journey
by Shakespira
Summary: Her heart never really left the Circle.  Slight spoilers for DA:O and DA:O:A
1. Chapter 1

**The First Steps**

Arin grabs the book out of Jowan's hand, running from the library, trailing laughter. She glances over her shoulder at the dark haired boy whose eyes are wide and seem to hold a warning in them. She waves the book at him, taunting him playfully, still running headlong down the hall. He shakes his head and starts to form words just as she turns her head and careens off a wall of steel, falling unceremoniously into a sprawling heap.

Cullen glances down at his freshly polished armor with no small amount of pride. And though he is still trying to get used to the weight of the armor in relation to the curving walls of the Circle Tower, he thinks he is doing a good job. He straightens his shoulders and glances up in time to see one of the young apprentices hurtling towards him, waving a book and laughing with an almost maniacal glee. His heart thumps in his chest, and he wonders if she is possessed and without thinking he reaches for his sword and then with a loud _kerwack_, she is a sprawling heap at his feet, howling in outrage and all he can think is that she is spurting blood all over his newly polished armor.

"You - you-" Arin begins, but is suddenly laughing again and he looks around the hallways wondering where a more senior templar might be because he is only sixteen and newly assigned to the Tower and he really doesn't want to have to kill a mage his first week here but thinks it may be entirely possible that he will have to.

"Arin, **stop** laughing and give me that book before I freeze you," Jowan hisses and that makes her laugh all the harder. She looks up at the templar with eyes the color of moss, shining with mirth, and somehow Cullen finds himself smiling and offering her a hand up. She ignores his hand in favor of trying to cover her nose, which is gushing now.

"Ice is good, I need something for my nose," Arin says, but it comes out all muddled and sounding more like, "_Ithe ith gud, I nedsumfonfohmahnothe_" because her nose is still bleeding and beginning to swell and Cullen thinks he should go find a healer and perhaps a good place to hide because he is fairly certain he has broken her nose. Her speech sends her into fresh gales of laughter, making Cullen worry that perhaps she is hysterical and a hysterical mage, as he has recently been taught, is a dangerous thing. He glances around again, praying for the Maker to deliver him from this but the Maker is obviously doing Maker knows what and he is alone and he sighs loudly, wondering what it is he is supposed to do.

Arin is beginning to feel a bit light headed and she thinks she may actually have chipped a tooth on the plated armor and she wants to rub her head because it hurts too but her hands are bloody and there seems to be entirely too much blood and the world is starting to dim and darken and there are little spots of brilliant color dancing in her vision and with an apologetic sigh, she pitches forward, unconscious.

_Maker's mercy, has he killed her_? Jowan sets up a howling chant of, "Mage killer! Mage Killer!" and Cullen wonders if it is possible to actually be fired as a templar. And with a momentary pang of regret about his nicely polished armor, he reaches down and scoops up the mage and makes his way to the infirmary, surprised by how light she is for all that she is _dead weight _and that choice of words makes him feel rather queasy.

By now the hall is beginning to fill with mages and templars and Cullen feels his cheeks redden at the suspicious looks he is getting from the mages and the snickering he hears from the templars. Now would be a good time for the tower floor to open up and swallow him whole, he thinks glumly.

Knight Commander Greagoir calls Cullen in to his office an hour later. Cullen did not think it possible to sweat so profusely inside armor without actually drowning in it but now realizes that it is indeed possible. Removing his gauntlets, he tugs at his errant hair, thinking he should just cut it off and be done with it but some small part of what's left of his vanity, the part the chantry hasn't beaten out of him, rather likes his hair as it is. He glances down at his newly, _newly _polished armor, making sure that the Knight Commander won't find fault with him. At least, Cullen thinks glumly, not with his appearance. The mage he probably killed will undoubtedly be another matter. He has learned that she is only twelve years old and his guilt is immense. A mage killer at age sixteen. Won't the templars be proud of him.

* * *

"Apologize? Really?" Arin asks, coppery gold brows arching in feigned surprise. She is standing in front of the First Enchanter's desk for the third time in a week. She is trying very hard to hide a smile but her dimples flash and she sees Irving's eyes crinkle. He clears his throat and she can see that he intends to chide her but not harshly.

"Did you think nobody would notice that you took an _entire_ pie?"

"I can make another, First Enchanter, honestly. But I saw them bring Anders in today and he just looks so sad so I thought that a pie would cheer him up," she explains and her smile dims a bit. Poor Anders. One day he will escape and the templars won't bring him back. Or, she thinks with a shudder, they will make him Tranquil. A fact that she reminded him of when she delivered the pie.

"Child, "Irving begins, motioning for her to sit. She takes her familiar seat across from him and looks at him with large, intent green eyes. She honestly tries to be good, but somehow things just _happen_ and she doesn't blame the First Enchanter for lecturing her she just wishes it wasn't necessary again.

"You are sixteen now, child. Your magical abilities are remarkable, but until your maturity matches your abilities you cannot take your Harrowing."

"Yes, First Enchanter," she agrees, feeling subdued and embarrassed again. There is nothing she wants more than to take her Harrowing and go out into the world and see what there is to see. Because Irving has told her that is a possibility. And the idea of seeing the world is appealing. **Very **appealing, she amends.

"Now, go to the kitchens and make a pie," Irving instructs but not unkindly.

Cullen watches her, arms folded, trying to look stern and _templary _at his post outside the First Enchanter's office but she pauses in front of him and winks and he cannot help the smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He clears his throat and finds a spot on the wall above her head and says nothing and pretends that he isn't glad to see she hasn't been crushed by her visit to the First Enchanter's office.

* * *

Arin grimaces, her nerves stretched so tightly she can hear them thrumming. Her fingers crackle with magic. The room is also crackling with magic. He can feel it tugging and pulling at the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Cullen frowns, moving towards her, hand on the hilt of his sword, but she shakes her head at him. "I'm fine,"she mouths, but a bead of sweat forms at her temple and trickled down her face. She need only hold this controlled motion for a few more seconds and she will...

"Stop! Arin Amell, stop at once!" Greagoir bellows.

Startled, Arin curses, losing her concentration as the tower of chairs wobbles precariously and then comes tumbling down around her. One catches her squarely on the head. She tumbles down as well. Cullen is quick. Even in the heavy plate of his templar's uniform, he is there, bending over her. The six years since his arrival have given him a certain grace and speed that had been sorely lacking in his early days. Arin blinks at him, trying to focus. She can taste the tang of blood on her tongue, realizing suddenly that her lower lip is bleeding profusely. A sizeable knot is forming above her eye. Cullen sees the anger sparking in her eyes and thinks he can actually feel her anger in the air.

"Cullen, get a healer in here, "Greagoir orders and sighs. Arin glares up at the Knight Commander accusingly. Cullen reluctantly stands and goes in search of a healer, wanting nothing more than to hold her until she is better. And that is a bit of a worry.

"It is especially foolish for one to bellow at a mage who is obviously deeply focused," she says, her voice reedy and thick. Her head is throbbing. She ignores his outstretched hand and stands up. She wipes her hands on her robe and begins counting the chairs.

"Do not speak to me that way, Amell. You know that casting spells for entertainment is in direct violation..."

"Of the sanctimonious and self serving rules of the Chantry and its bullies," she finishes, her voice tight. She thinks she hears Anders snicker at that but many of the other mages who have gathered in the library mostly shuffle out, uneasy now that the fun is over. And she is contrite because it isn't Greagoir's fault that there are templars watching their every move. But something about him infuriates her, provokes her into saying things she would not dream of saying to anyone else.

"Arin, put these chairs back, get cleaned up and report to my office," First Enchanter Irving orders, though there is no heat in his voice, merely resignation and a bit of sadness. Cullen stands beside Irving, arms folded, eyes watchful.

"Yes First Enchanter."

Cullen helps her straighten the chairs and she thanks him, flashing her smile at him. His cheeks reddened in embarrassment. "Uhm, yes, you're welcome," he stammers and drops his eyes. Impulsively, she reaches out a hand and touches his arm lightly. He can't actually feel her fingers on his armored arm, but he is surprised by how good the touch feels. "Youre such a good person," she whispers and then goes to tidy up before her visit with the First Enchanter, leaving a very flustered Cullen staring after her. She shouldn't touch him. Or talk to him. And his heart should not race when she does.

She hums lightly as she winds her way along the curving halls of the Tower. She loves the gentle curves, the long, winding corridors and hidden alcoves. There is a timeless, graceful beauty about the tower that is comforting to her. She loves the sound of magic crackling all around her, pulsing in the air. She doesn't really love the templars but other than that cranky old Greagoir, many of them are decent enough, if a bit cold and stand-offish. She suspects that has to do with fear. And training that involves learning how to kill mages because they are evil.

Even knowing that she is about to face Greagoir's wrath and Irving's disappointment, there is a certain effervescence in her step, in her manner and she can feel it and knows that she needs to somehow repress it but she can't seem to. She wonders if she can ever explain to either of them how these things happen. She isn't a bad person or a bad mage, she just has this happy energy within her that springs forth and needs to **do **something. As she reaches the First Enchanter's office, she hesitates before knocking. She smoothes her robes and takes a deep breath. She honestly doesn't mean to cause Irving anxiety, she just has a need to explore and stretch her limits and tweak the templars' noses.

"Irving, it is time she knows her legacy, knows who she really is. This wanton disregard for rules shows that the apple did not fall far from the tree!"

"Greagoir, that is neither fair nor accurate. Arin is high spirited, I will grant you. She chafes at the restrictions but no more than most girls her age. She has never harmed anyone in this tower, nor would she, I suspect. This prejudice because of an accident of birth does not suit you," Irving chides.

Accident of birth? Legacy? Arin's hand falters and suddenly weighs too much and falls to her side.

"You thought the same of Marin," Greagoir says but his voice is softer, sadder, wistful. Wistful? Arin boggles at that.

"Marin was justified in killing Jerod and Kenric. You know that," Irving interjects sharply.

A prickle of fear chases along Arin's spine and she leans forward, afraid to listen but more afraid not to.

"I don't know what I know, Irving. The lines blur and dim with time," Greagoir replies with a long sigh.

Marin? Marin the Mad Mage? She is a legend, a fantasy used to scare young mages into obedience. What does Marin have to do with me? Arin wonders blankly. And suddenly the Tower seems colder. Arin shivers. What accident of birth? She raises her hand to knock but drops it again. What does he mean? Surely he isn't saying that she is in some way similar to or connected to Mad Marin? She tries to laugh at the notion but she feels a diminishment as if the air around her somehow compresses. A tightness settles in her chest.

Cullen stands silently, watching the emotions play across her expressive face. He wants to reassure her. About what he isn't't sure, but she looks like she needs reassuring. He wants to let her know that she is a good person too. But he is a templar and she is a mage. He isn't permitted to acknowledge her in _that _way. All his training tells him that. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He really should wear his helmet and he knows this because most of his fellow templars wear theirs. If for no other reason than to give him distance and control. But he feels constrained and **too **distant when he wears it, which is probably why they are given them in the first place, he supposes.

He watches as her smile fades, replaced by a frown. He watches her take a step away from the door. It seems almost as if she is shrinking and he finds himself moving towards her, concern a sharp bloom in his chest. Before he takes more than two steps, the door swings open and Greagoir strides out, nearly knocking her down.

"Eavesdropping is an ugly practice, Arin," he admonishes and then looks at her again. She is pale and drawn and her breath is short and shallow and she is staring at him with glassy eyes.

"Arin?" he asks and he sees the effort she is making to focus on him. He puts a hand out to steady her but she only stares at it, seemingly too confused to see it extended towards her.

"Marin? How is she related to me?" Arin asks finally in a hushed, croaking voice. Cullen strains to hear the conversation but can't. He shifts, moving forward again. She needs something and he isn't sure what but he feels compelled to offer whatever he can. Which as a templar is not all that much, he admits.

Irving is there, his arm around her shoulders, supporting her, guiding her into his office. Arin looks up at him, her eyes wide with shock. Cullen takes another step towards her. He has a need to help her somehow though he doesn't know exactly what that help would be. Greagoir sees him and waves him away. "Get back to your post, Cullen. We'll handle this," Greagoir orders and then adds softly, "Maker help her." Which does nothing to alleviate Cullen's growing alarm. He watches as the door slowly closes.

"I'm a daughter of Aeonar?" Arin whispers. "My _mother_ is Marin the Mad?" She rocks back and forth, her hands clasped tightly. She has a sudden urge to laugh and is horrified by that. Is she mad too? A daughter of Aeonar? Isn't that what they call those babies unfortunate enough to survive being born in the mage prison?

"Irving did you not tell me that I had been left on the doorstop of the chantry in Lothering when I was three? Was that a lie?"

Before Irving can answer she laughs, a dry bitter sound, like bones rubbing together. "Of course it was a lie. I mean Marin the Mad has been in Aeonar for 19 years now. Nineteen years ago she killed a number of templars didn't she? And what else does the legend say? Oh yes, she ran through the halls, naked, screaming. She tried to eat the templars she killed. That's part of the legend too, isn't it? They tell us that can happen to any of us if we don't follow the rules. They use Marin the Mad Mage to terrorize the little ones into obedience! That's my mother. Lovely."

"Child," Irving begin, but she cuts him off, launching out of her chair and whirling on him, fear sluicing through her and turning to anger and shame and she wants to shut up and run and run and run but words tumble out.

"I'm not your child, Irving. Or - or am I? Who, I wonder, is my father? Obviously someone from the tower. A templar? A mage? You? Greagoir? And obviously there must be more to the story or I wouldn't be here because Mad Marin would have been killed by the templars. Cleaved by a Sword of Mercy," she continues in a voice that is low and harsh and terrified. She is the daughter of a malificar? A mad mage who ran amok in the tower? How could that be? She slides to the floor, clutching herself and rocking back and forth. Despair radiates off of her. And magic.

Her thoughts and emotions are roiling, boiling, threatening to explode around them. Irving and Greagoir can feel the magical energy emanating from her in waves and she is trying desperately to control the impulse to hurl Irving's desk across the room, to tear the room asunder. She raises her hands and sees the blue magical energy dancing from her fingertips, impatient to be let free.

The Veil is shimmering around her, moving like a glowing curtain of brilliant light in her mind. She can hear the whisper of a thousand voices beckoning to her, tempting her. She is plucking at the threads of her mind, almost willing a demon to come to her, to possess her so that the terrible pain in her chest will ease. She sees Greagoir quietly touch the hilt of his sword, preparing himself should it be necessary and she blinks, once, twice. If she is ever to be struck down by templar, she wants it to be Cullen. She trusts him enough to know it will be quick and painless. That thought shakes her. She doesn't want to die, surely? She clutches her hands tightly again, willing the energy to subside. Her breathing becomes controlled, the static energy dispersing harmlessly.

Cullen watches and waits, thinking she has been in there too long and it is much too quiet for Arin to be having a dressing down because she tends to be quite loud when she is in trouble. Cullen lets out a breath he doesn't realize he is holding when the door opens and she steps out. He tries to catch her eye but her eyes are cast downward. He watches as she leaves the First Enchanter's office, her shoulders bowed, head lowered. It is as if her inner light has been extinguished. Finally she glances his way and gives him a little smile, a sad smile. Cullen feels helpless and hopeless as he watches her sagging figure slowly make its way along the corridor, and he wonders with a sharp pang if the light will return and Maker's breath, what happened to her? What did they do to her in that office? He sinks into the shadows, a young templar standing guard.

* * *

Arin glances over at Cullen and gives him the barest wink and the corners of her mouth twitch ever so slightly upward in a tiny, private smile, which makes no sense to Cullen but he lowers his head, lest the others see his answering smile. She is in the Harrowing Chamber, about to enter the Fade. And he is here to strike her down if she fails her Harrowing. What is there to be happy about, he wonders. He is miserable, feeling the heavy weight of his armor oppressive in the stifling room and the heavy weight of his duty equally oppressive. But he hopes that she doesn't realize why he is there because she probably wouldn't smile or wink at him.

She is on the floor, lips moving, eyes fluttering, as she makes her way through the Fade. Time seems to slow and loop back on itself as they wait. Cullen can feel sweat _flowing _down his back and he hopes the others cannot see how nervous he is, cannot smell the fear in him. _Wake up!_ She twitches and whimpers and his heart thumps painfully against his armor, against his duty. Don't fail, he urges silently. Maker's mercy, don't fail, he pleads and begins reciting prayers silently. Minutes seem to turn into hours. He grits his teeth and clenches his jaws and wills time to move more quickly. It only takes twenty one minutes but it feels like a lifetime.

And then he is carrying her back to the dormitory and laying her on her bed and if Greagoir or Irving notice just how gentle he is with his burden, they don't speak of it to him. He doesn't actually want to release her. He wants to hold her until she wakes up and be the first thing she sees but that is dumb, dumb, **dumb**. He is a templar, for the Maker's sake, and she is a mage. He releases her and marches out of the room. He finds that he can breathe again and with a heartfelt sigh, he makes his way to _his _dormitory, strips out of his heavy armor and collapses on his bed, feeling as though he has somehow passed the Harrowing as well.

Hours later, she is hurrying along the curved corridor, trying to pull her hair back into some semblance of order as she scurries toward Irving's office but when she sees Cullen she skids to a stop and offers a radiant smile. And this time, after so many months, the smile actually reaches her eyes and he finds himself smiling in response.

"Cullen! I passed!" Her voice is pulsing with happiness and energy, amazingly upbeat after her experience. Most of the mages who pass their Harrowing are sick for days but here she is a breath of fresh air and sunshine, radiating happiness and confidence.

"Uhm, yes, I was there," he reminds her, feeling his face warm at her look and wondering if he will ever, for the love of the Maker, be able to say anything even half way intelligent around her.

"Oh right! I knew that. I just...I just wanted to say the words out loud to someone who," but she stops, a rosy blush spreading across her cheeks. He wonders what she was about to say and then he finds heat creeping into his cheeks.

"I...I'm glad, Arin. I would have done my duty had it been necessary," he hears himself adding and is mortified. _Makers Mercy, you idiot_!

Surprisingly, she touches his arm briefly, reassuringly, and says, "I know and I'm glad it was you, Cullen. I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to do it.

And then she is scurrying on towards the First Enchanter's Office, leaving a dumbstruck templar in her wake.

* * *

Jowan fools them all, betrays them all. Even the two women he claims to love. Arin is fighting a sense of loss and betrayal. She is so angry that her chest is heaving. Why is life never simple and clean and elegant?

"And you! Newly a mage and already flouting the rules," Greagoir barks, pointing an angry finger at her. But there is more in his steel gray eyes than anger, she sees it but has trouble identifying it. Disappointment? Not possible. He would have to actually care about her to be disappointed with her. She puffs up, about to bark back. It is the hurt in his eyes that deflates her. She wants to shout that she is horrified and sorry and she only helped him in the hopes that they will send her to Aeonar. She wants to scream at them that she has just lost her lifelong friend and she lost him through a series of betrayals that hurt, hurt,** hurt**. She wants to yell at them that not one of them in the hall is actually guiltless but she just lets her thoughts and his words crash over her like the angry waves of Lake Calenhad on a stormy day. Her chin is held dangerously high. She refuses to allow the tears that tremble on her lashes to fall. She will not give any of them the satisfaction of seeing such weakness in her. You can NOT break me, damn you, she thinks, not for the first time, but not entirely sure who the _You _is that she is so angry at.

"Child, what have you done?" Irving asks and she looks at him and her chin begins to tremble. Tears form anew and she shakes her head slightly. He looks so hurt, so confused and she feels remorse and regret tearing into her like so many brambles.

"I am sorry, First Enchanter, I know I've done wrong and I accept my punishment," she whispers.

"Why, Arin?"

Why indeed?

"I - I suppose you'll have to send me to Aeonar now," she says as bravely as she can and a single tear slides hotly down her cheek, belying her brave words. She thinks she can hear the _plop_ that it makes when it hits the floor, the silence is so complete. She closes her eyes against the pain.

If the mage's prison is good enough for Lily, it better be good enough for me or this impulsive, reckless, stupid action will have cost me everything and gained me nothing, she thinks wildly, waiting, willing them to pronounce sentence on her.

"To _Aeonar_? Oh child is that why you helped Jowan? To get to Aeonar?" Irving asks, sounding both horrified and heartbroken. Another tear leaks out of her closed eyes and follows the track of the first. Plop.

Greagoir is stunned into silence apparently and for this Arin is truly grateful because she is feeling as small and mean as it is possible to feel. She raises her eyes to look around and is thankful that Cullen is not among the templars who had been knocked about by Jowan's blood magic.

"What? The mage's prison. Surely not," Duncan, the Grey Warden, is saying and to her horror, he conscripts her into the Order and she is furious. She glares at him and when he moves to take her arm, she backs away.

"No! First Enchanter! Knight Commander! I...you should send me to Aeonar at once! Please!" she cries desperately but they all just looked at her as though she had sprouted horns and asked the King of Ferelden to dance the Remigold with her and then Irving is hugging her, telling her that he will send her things on to the Grey Warden headquarters in Denerim and she is being whisked away from the Tower but not to Aeonar and her heart is tearing and her eyes are a watershed and she hates Duncan and Irving and Greagoir and Jowan.

It is days before she realizes she didn't get to say good bye to anyone, especially Cullen and she hates Duncan and Irving and Greagoir and Jowan all over again.


	2. Chapter 2

Homeward Bound

_"Well you can be a bit of an arse, but I don__t think I'__d go so far as to call you a bastard," __Arin cuts in but when she sees he is serious, and that her remark stings, she puts a hand on his arm and squeezes lightly. She really wants to know why Arl Eamon raised Alistair but he is off on a tangent now and she can tell this information is hard for him to speak about. _

_"So what? So am I. Lots of people are,"__ she adds gently, hoping to cheer him up. She really doesn__t want to hurt his feelings but being a bastard isn't__ the end of the world. _

_"Ouch. Let me guess. You went to the Morrigan School of Empathetic Arts, right?"_

_This strikes Arin as extremely funny and the giggles bubble up and out, which causes Alistair to glare at her, arms akimbo. "__Maker__s breath,"__ he huffs and that just makes her giggle more, which causes Sten to shake his head disdainfully. Warriors are NOT women and Warriors do NOT giggle. She can tell there is more to the story because Alistair is angry but also very relieved about something. The camp is not always a good place for conversation and they are busy and she doesn__t pursue it. _

_They are on the road to Redcliffe to enlist Arl Eamon__s aid several days later when she finds out what he hasn't__ told her. _

_"Look, can we talk for a moment? I need to tell you something I, ah, should probably have told you earlier,"__ he begins and Arin stares up at him, unblinking as he tells her about King Maric and a serving girl. _

_"So you are a prince? Heir to the throne?"__ she gulps, and he nods miserably. "__That'__s big,"__ she adds and he raises an eyebrow, looking suspicious and unhappy. _

_"Yes, well, thank you for your understanding,"__ he says sarcastically. _

_"Well your parents are certainly more respectable than mine. My mother is Marin the Mad Mage and I'__ve no idea at all who my father is. See how much worse things could be?"__ she responds._

_She squeezes his arm and smiles up at him and he feels better somehow, and they enter the village side by side but of course the smiles don__t last because the village is being attacked and the Arl is near death and Jowan isn't quite finished ruining her life and it is __"the end of the world as we know it."__ Again. And she wonders if she'll ever get to just have fun again, remembering the joy she so often felt in the Tower. With Cullen watching over her._

* * *

Loghain is dead. The Archdemon is dead. The Architect is dead. Mother is dead. Dead, dead, dead. Amaranthine is safe because Nathaniel Howe is now acting Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, keeping vigil at Vigil's Keep. King Alistair is still trying to learn how to be king and Arin is still trying to help him learn. They sit at the king's massive desk going through a mound of paperwork, the silence between them companionable.

"Marry me," Alistair orders suddenly and Arin glances over at him, smiling slightly and tapping her chin thoughtfully, considering his proposal.

"A brilliant plan, your majesty. I am just not sure which piece of bad news the kingdom might want to hear first. Hmm, of course they already know I'm a mage so that might not need to be stated again. Oh! Oh, I know. Let's just let them know that the whole Drink of Death thing makes it pretty much impossible to have babies with each other, and possibly with any non tainted person so no heirs for this king. After hearing about the no heirs thing, the whole thing about my mother being Marin the Mad Mage and my father being, well, unknown, will seem like good news. And why have only one bastard on the throne when you can have two?"

By now Alistair has gone from grinning to chuckling to a sharp howl of laughter and he is holding his hands up in surrender. "But they keep introducing me to scary women whose mothers swoop down on me like vultures and I'm a mouse and they are very hungry and you know how I feel about swooping."

"Boo hoo," Arin says, not without sympathy. She flashes a smile at him to soften her words. They have talked about this several times. They are the best of friends and have so much fun together. She loves him unconditionally as he does her. She would go to the ends of Thedas for him, and feels like she has, but marriage is not for them, and they both know it. She leans across the desk and drops a kiss on the tip of his nose.

"Swooping is bad," he grumbles, reaching for another stack of papers to sign. She slides a letter across his desk and the light atmosphere dissipates.

"This is a document for you to travel to the Circle," he accuses.

"It's my home, Alistair. Surely you won't begrudge my paying Irving a visit?" she asks quietly, not quite a challenge. There is an edge to her voice because she is required to have travel documents.

"It will change, Arin. Give it time," Alistair says quietly and earnestly when he signs the document. It is a promise and one he will keep, she knows. Still. The Hero of Ferelden and the Commander of the Grey needing permission to travel without a templar in tow because she is a mage is just...well...sad.

He looks up at her quizzically and she wonders if she has spoken out loud but realizes he just knows her very, very well. "There is more, isn't there?" he asks quietly, seriously.

"Oh you know, the usual. Mages running amok, the tower in need of a firm hand," she begins, lightly.

And in unison, they finish it, "The end of the world as we know it," because this has been their mantra from the beginning. Her laugh comes out more like a heavy sigh.

He studies her for a moment and frowns slightly. In the past two years she has become thinner and smaller, as if weighed down by life, and there seems to be a darkness in her eyes that doesn't quite disappear even when she laughs. He understands better than most, what the two years have cost in terms of self. But they have both done their duty and he really doesn't begrudge her wanting a change of scenery. Not for the first time he shoots a quick prayer to the Maker that she find her way, that she find someone to help her carry her burden because at the moment she looks lost and incredibly lonely. And also not for the first time he wonders why they aren't meant for each other when they are so perfect together. But he knows. They are the best of friends but there have never been romantic feelings between them. She has always kept her heart aloof, as if it already belonged to someone else. He suspects it might be a certain templar she sat talking to for hours after they killed Uldred.

It seems to Arin, as she makes her way out of the city the following day, that everyone else in her life has settled down or gone on to other things and is actually living life. She is the one who is at loose ends and feeling both restless and rootless. For a wild moment she wishes she had gone with Sten on his journey home. However, considering how Qunari treat mages, it is just as well she didn't. She likes her tongue where it is.

But thoughts of Sten inevitably lead to Styx, her Mabari hound and there is a keen, sharp _ping_ in her heart because she misses him even more than she misses Sten. But Sten had sounded so lonely and wistful when she had mentioned how long his journey home would be and Styx had given her the _look _and she found herself telling Styx to go with Sten. The Mabari had looked at her, head tilted as if to say: "Are you sure?" and she had nodded because she was the Hero of Ferelden and had defeated the Archdemon and she was surrounded by friends and Sten, for all that his face was impassive and stoic, looked unaccountably sad at the thought of traveling home alone.

Her steps are light upon the road, she whistles tunelessly, feeling the earth under her feet. Home. Well, a gilded cage is almost home, she thinks and laughs out loud. Zev would appreciate the irony in that. But Zev is in Antiva, happily murdering Crows. She won't permit herself to believe otherwise. And Leliana is out barding in Orlais, having the time of her life, no doubt. And her smile falters because she is suddenly feeling lonely and melancholy and just a bit sorry for herself. And what is she thinking? Walking all the way to the Circle Tower from Denerim? Alone?

"I blame the king," she mutters darkly but continues on, shifting her pack and using her staff as a walking stick. The miles fall behind her and the day is crisp and crystal clear and beautiful and the sun is warm and healing upon her face. Though she thinks her nose might be getting baked. "I definitely blame the king,"she grumbles and continues along the road.

After long days of open road, open sky and hard tack, she makes her way down the sloping grass hill to the dock. Kester's face lights up when he sees her and he whisks his hat off, giving her a deferential bob. "Well, well! The Hero of Ferelden!" he says in his gruff hearty voice and bobs again.

"No, Kester. Just Arin, Mage of the Circle of Ferelden," she corrects and wants to hug him because he is familiar and unchanged by all that has happened in the past two years and he is a promise that coming home might be possible after all.

She lets his babble wash over her, turning her face into the stiffening wind off the lake as he rows her to the Tower. She closes her eyes, trying not to remember the last time she came across the lake. And then slowly, she opens them and is walking up the slope towards the Tower, her stomach knotted and her heart pounding. Home. And Cullen, she allows herself to hope.

She opens the gate into the Tower garden, breathing deeply of the herbs and flowers growing in precise rows. The cherry blossoms are a carpet of pink snow and she walks through them, stirring them so that they are pink moths gathering at the hem of her cloak. The sun is shining brightly on her hair, glinting gold and red.

She is home.

She stoops to pick a sprig of rosemary and takes a moment to let the feeling wash through her, scrubbing away the ache that has been with her for so long.

She is home. A soft sigh escapes her, the setting down of a burden she hasn't known she was carrying. She is here and the Tower is here and the mages endure. And she will endure.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Perpetual Path**

_"You did that on purpose!"__ Alistair__s voice is strident and petulant. He brushes the snowflakes out of his hair before he turns to glare at her._

_Arin eyes him with only a little bit of apology in her smile. "__You know, it occurs to me that someone who has had __**templar**__ training would know not to stand in front of a mage who is busy casting. I could be wrong but I don__t recall the templars at the tower ever getting in the way of a casting mage."_

_"You are a nasty, mean, evil woman. And you are most definitely __**not**__ my favoritist mage."_

_"Oh no. Maker'__s mercy, I don__t - oh I think I may cry,"__ Arin responds, dropping her head into her hands, shoulders quivering. She makes a strangled, inarticulate sound. _

_"Oh no, no no. Don__t cry. I didn__t mean it like __**that**__,"__ Alistair begs, patting her shoulder awkwardly, eyes full of concern and contrition._

_Arin raises her head, her eyes dry, laughing at his look of outrage when he realizes she hasn't been crying at all. And then they are both off into fresh paroxysms of laughter as Wynne shakes her head. "__It__s like dealing with children,"__ she mutters to no one in particular but the pair are already moving off to the next fight and it occurs to Wynne that they are just releasing tension because there is absolutely nothing funny about the Deep Roads. At all._ _In fact, it is the end of the world as we know it, they remark, more than once._

_Haunting, horrible rhyme of the Deep, Hespith__s whispering chant clogs Arin__s throat with unshed tears and an unreasonable terror. And underneath the chant, reverberating off the walls and into their very bones are the guttural moist grunts and growls of something that is neither human nor darkspawn. Arin pauses, glances at her party to make sure they are ready for...but her mind blanks at what inhuman thing is making those sounds. She inches forward, wanting desperately to retreat. But she is the leader and retreat is not an option. She feels a lurching queasiness as she steps around the taint that is spreading along the walls and floor of the cave like dark tendrils of death. _

_It takes her precious seconds to find the source once they enter the cavern. Behemoth! Woman? Darkspawn? Grotesque, twisted vile thing. The entire party freezes in horror and it doesn__t matter, she thinks, because she is staring into the maw of madness, whatever it is, and it is at once both mesmerizing and terrifying. A tentacle picks her up, squeezing and shaking her and she is screaming incoherently because it is her face she sees now..._

Cullen is making his customary sweep of the upper floors before turning in. The Tower is steeped in stillness and shadows. A prickle of disquiet nags at him. Arin had not appeared at dinner and when he asked Irving, in as disinterested a voice as he could muster, Irving only said that she was probably too tired.

Cullen fervently hopes that's all it is. He had caught sight of her in the garden and she had looked up at him with a sad little smile and her greeting had sounded more than tired, she had sounded...broken. Like he had after Uldred's uprising.

She had saved Cullen then, both physically and mentally. She had come to him after the tower was secure and talked to him about his ordeal for hours, even though he knew she had other duties to attend. She had sat beside him on the hard stone floor, her little hand caught in his and let him babble incoherently, offering him encouragement and hope. He wonders, as he looks around the empty halls, who is saving _her_?

He passes near her door and stops a moment, glancing around to make sure that the watchers are not watching him. He tilts his head, listening to the silence. She is back. He frowns slightly. He had thought never to see her again and there was some part of him that was good with that, even a bit relieved. When she is around it is difficult to think. Or breathe, he adds, but there is a softening in his expression. He hasn't realized until right now just how lonely he is at times. And how much she brightens his surroundings. Not that he can actually act on any of this because he is a templar and she is a mage and that isn't _done_.

Perpetual sorrow lies down that path. Still, his heart thrums just knowing she is here again, near him.

Eternal, perpetual sorrow, he reminds himself and starts to walk toward his own room.

The scream is so shrill and strident that he jumps and immediately unsheathes his sword, sure that a shade or a demon will come screeching around a corner to torment him again. His palms are sweaty against the hilt of his sword. And his heart plummets to his boots because the undulating screams are coming from _her_ room.

She is sitting up, shaking violently, and her screams seem endless and tortured, her eyes wide and sightless. And he drops his sword and races to her, holds her, rocking her, trying to reach her, knowing somewhere in his chaotic thoughts that he has just thrown away a lifetime of training because what if she _is_ a demon now and his sword is by the door for the Maker's sake!

But she isn't, he can tell that she is in the throes of a nightmare, and the sooner she wakes from it, the less chance of a demon possessing her. He bends and whispers her name over and over, calling to her to come back, to find him in whatever nightmare she is trapped in, rocking her in his arms, amazed at how she fits so well in them.

He thinks he may be having a heart attack because his heart is beating so quickly and erratically and it hurts to see her in such anguish.

And somewhere in the chaos that used to be his well ordered brain, he realizes that every candle in the room is glowing but he doesn't really want to know why or how because that might be the work of demons and his sword is still across the room where he dropped it once upon a time when he was a templar.

She calms under his ministrations, her screams dwindling to small childlike whimpering that he finds somehow even more unnerving. She is shivering and muttering but he can't quite understand what she is saying. He continues to whisper her name and stroke her sweat soaked hair away from her forehead. Her eyes flutter open and widen, nostrils flaring in fear that quickly subsides, replaced by startled recognition. As she calms, Cullen discovers he is calming down as well, chaos receding. He finds it odd that no one has come to investigate the screaming and then remembers that this wing is empty now because there are so few visitors to the Tower since the trouble, and much fewer mages and templars.

Arin blinks, staring into Cullen's eyes, searching for he knows not what. "Arin, do you know where you are?" he asks, pleased with how calm and even his voice is because inside he is running around shrieking like a scared little boy.

"Cullen? What on earth are you doing in the Deep Roads?" she asks, sitting up and pulling away from him slightly. Her cheeks flush. "No, not the Deep Roads," she says with a shaky laugh, confused.

"Uhm...the Tower, Arin. You're home," he reminds her gently and is rewarded with a tremulous smile.

She leans into him for a minute, breathing deeply. Shyly she reaches up and touches his cheek with tentative fingers. His heart starts attacking his armor from the inside trying to pound its way out.

Eternal, perpetual, everlasting sorrow lies down this path and he knows it and he is clumsy in his innocence and his heavy armor, but he drops a light kiss on her forehead and an eyelid and she flows back into the curve of his arms and her lashes flutter down with a contented sigh and she is asleep.

Ever the smooth one, he tells himself wryly and he settles her back onto her pillows and eases himself off the bed but when he bends to snuff out a candle she stirs and in a sleep heavy voice says, "No, please. No darkness."

He is a templar. It is his sworn duty to protect against the demons of the Fade and malificarum and herself. It is his sworn duty to protect mages, whether they like it or not. He pulls up a chair and sits by her bed. He thinks it might actually look more official if he retrieves his sword but he doesn't.

"No darkness, Ari," he replies in a rough voice because he has a wild urge to shuck his armor and climb into bed beside her and just hold her all night.

Eternal, perpetual, everlasting, ceaseless sorrow lies down this path and he knows it but he gets up and closes the door and shoots the bolt and comes back to the bed. Removing his gauntlet, he takes her hand in his and watches her sleep.

Arin wakes sometime later and her head is heavy, her mouth cotton dry. She stares, disoriented, and startles when she sees Cullen, asleep in a chair beside her bed, plate gloves on the floor, one hand on her arm, warm and comforting. She gently disengages her arm and rolls quietly off her bed. She pads silently around the bed and over to him, staring down at him and allowing all her love to shine from her like a beacon, because she knows he cannot see it. She reaches down to touch his face again, feather light with love. He stirs and it is his turn to blink, disoriented. What is she doing here? But it rushes back to him and he pulls her gently onto his lap, staying her hands.

Eternal, perpetual, everlasting, ceaseless, never ending sorrow lies down this path but he finds her mouth with his in a shy, first ever kiss and he thinks that the path may be worth it because she tastes sweet and warm and her hands are cupping his face and Maker's mercy, she feels like salvation to him.

"Tell me," he says quietly, as he holds her.

Ari looks at him, eyes round and green and awash with unshed tears. "You don't really want to know, Cullen." But the truth is she doesn't want to remember and he can see that in the way she flinches away from the memory.

"You need to remember, Ari. As long as you don't, it has power over you. Trust me, I know," he responds and she realizes he probably does at that.

"Oh Cullen, you've been in this tower for so long. How can you understand how ugly the world out there is?" she asks but there is no heat in her voice, only a weary grief. His arms tighten around her.

"Help me to understand then, Arin. Help me to heal you," he implores, holding her closer, breathing her into him.

Her voice is soft as she begins to tell him about the Broodmother. He is appalled as he listens to her and instinctively holds her closer but she doesn't mind the armor biting into her skin because she feels safe here in her room, in his arms. She can feel his hand, tentative and gentle, stroking her hair and she gradually relaxes into him as she tells him about how the darkspawn breed.

But the big secret, the big fear that she may end up like them, she keeps locked up because it is too horrible to contemplate and she is feeling too warm and relaxed in his arms and does not want to spoil it. Hopefully Alistair will honor his promise and she will never have to know the horror of becoming a Broodmother.

"Is that why you sleep with all these candles lit?" he asks finally, as she falls quiet.

"I know, I am such a coward. Really. People call me the Hero of Ferelden but honestly, I am more like the Coward of Ferelden, "she says with a self deprecating laugh.

"Hmm, somehow I thought with all that reading you did here you'd be smarter than that," Cullen says with a huff.

She crinkles her eyes at him in a way that makes his insides feel like jelly. He lowers his head and steals another sweet kiss from her, feeling sixteen and randy and damned. And then his heart speeds up and his blood slows down as her hands twine around his neck like a honeysuckle vine and her mouth is hot and moist and _open_ and he thinks it is possible that he is going to die now, quietly and happily.

She breaks away from him suddenly. "Greagoir will kill you if he finds out you're here," she says, guilt stricken.

"He won't find me here. He isn't even in the Tower right now," Cullen reassures her, but he shifts in his chair and realizes that dawn cannot be far away. And Greagoir's absence will do little to save them. He is, however, reluctant to let her go.

He likes the feel of her in his arms and he wonders what it would have been like to take off his armor and actually feel her hands on his skin. She grazes his cheek lightly with her fingertips, smiling softly. Maker's breath, how can such small little hands provoke such large reactions in him? But she is reaching up with soft lips and dewy eyes and kissing him and he cannot remember what he should be doing, for the life of him, so he gives himself up to the kiss instead.

Eternal, perpetual, everlasting, ceaseless, never ending, incessant sorrow lies down this path and he knows it but he thinks that if she is walking beside him it may just be worth it.


End file.
